Ullie and Ollie are a double echo – not of their father, but of what he failed to become. They grow up without guidance, yet full of confidence in their superiority. Left to raise themselves in a broken nest, they become clever, cruel, and self-satisfied creatures. Their bond is unshakable, but their moral compass spins without direction.
They are the classic image of sons of a fallen patriarch: sharp claws, sharp words, a desperate desire not to repeat his mistakes – and yet, in the beginning, they do exactly that. Their cruelty is performative, their sense of superiority a suit of armor. But beneath it lies hunger. Not just for power, but for something to believe in.
What sets them apart isn’t their strength, but their ability to change. They begin as petty tyrants, focused only on victory. But the encounter with Anne – the same girl who once humiliated them – shakes them. Slowly, unevenly, and not all at once. Pride gives way to loyalty. Cynicism turns into something like trust.
They are what many students are before they become teachers: reactive, wounded, theatrical. They hide their vulnerability behind jokes and mockery. But in the end, they fight – not because they believe in good, but because someone showed them it still exists.
Ullie and Ollie are not villains. They are mirrors. And when they stop reflecting others, they become something rare: individuals. Not sons. Not shadows. But themselves.
